pixelhosehttps://pixelhose.wordpress.com
an experimental variety blogMon, 21 May 2018 16:30:56 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://secure.gravatar.com/blavatar/071cfe23720fcaa5abfc639b1a660892?s=96&d=https%3A%2F%2Fs0.wp.com%2Fi%2Fbuttonw-com.pngpixelhosehttps://pixelhose.wordpress.com
Our Facebook Page Is Up!https://pixelhose.wordpress.com/2012/03/23/our-facebook-page-is-up/
Fri, 23 Mar 2012 18:37:38 +0000http://pixelhose.com/?p=1612Continue reading →]]>As you probably noticed, we’ve been kinda quiet after our first writing competition concluded. The reason was that, before rolling out another project, we wanted to make sure to analyze our first project and make any necessary changes.

One of the first issues we decided to address was the way WordPress.com (our current-but-not-for-long host) handled comments and “Like”s. To solve the issue we created our own Facebook page – duh, ha?! Unfortunately, to integrate the Facebook page with pixelhose.com we need to change hosts which is a bit of work still ahead for us. Once completed however, your readers will be able to vote for your work and post comments directly on our Facebook page. There are more changes coming shortly that, collectively, will make pixelhose easier to use, a better destination to showcase your talent, and a more effective partner to contribute to your success.

In the meantime, please like our Facebook page on http://www.facebook.com/pixelhose.To make the page a bit interesting, we posted most of the pixelhose.com page header photos; now you don’t have keep reloading the page to see all the header photos!

Best,

Bob Dourandish
Publisher

]]>pixelhoseWinners of the pixelhose.com First Writing Competitionhttps://pixelhose.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/winners-of-the-pixelhose-com-first-writing-competition/
https://pixelhose.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/winners-of-the-pixelhose-com-first-writing-competition/#commentsTue, 07 Feb 2012 22:46:13 +0000http://pixelhose.com/?p=1604Continue reading →]]>We are pleased to announce the winners of our first writing competition.

Before sharing the list, however, all of us here want to take a moment to thank everyone for participating – for your submissions, for reading the posts, and for the great comments – that made the pixelhose contest unique, lively, and fun. Secondly, we need to stress the difficulty of selecting form amongst such wonderful pieces. At the end, our selection was influenced with a combination of the writing, the story or message, and of course, reader reaction. With that in mind, the selected pieces are:

]]>https://pixelhose.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/winners-of-the-pixelhose-com-first-writing-competition/feed/23pixelhoseWriting Competition Short Listshttps://pixelhose.wordpress.com/2012/01/23/writing-competition-short-lists/
https://pixelhose.wordpress.com/2012/01/23/writing-competition-short-lists/#commentsMon, 23 Jan 2012 22:06:18 +0000http://pixelhose.com/?p=1526Continue reading →]]>We are excited to release the short list of candidates for our writing competition. There are two lists, one for Fiction and one for Non-Fiction entries. They are listed below in alphabetical order by author.

This was an unusually difficult selection for us because of the large number of high quality submissions. At the end, 34 Fiction and 15 Non-Fiction pieces stood out for us, creating a rather strong and unique combination of narratives to eventually choose winners from. As per the process posted here, after the contest concludes we plan to publish a brief comment on all the published pieces. At that point, the authors will have a better idea as to why their entry may or may not have been included in the short list.

Winners for each category will be announced on Tuesday February 7, 2012. This will give authors two more weeks to promote your work and encourage your readers to post comments on your piece.

How did I get here? A palpable question. How did any of us get here, really? A fleeting decision, a non-believer, a content sinner; we are all here. Some of us in regret and some of us quite complacent.

I couldn’t tell you the exact moment that I snapped, losing control of all my senses but I could tell you that it was the most free I’ve ever felt in my entire life, euphoric even. Anger stored itself deep down, bubbling in my blood, rising and rising until it had nowhere to go but out. It was an outer body experience. I had no control of my own thoughts or movement, like I was floating above myself, just watching. The room was still and quiet, even though I’m sure the actuality of it all was chaos; screaming and choking and moaning and the loud sounds of suffering but all I could hear was this pleasant song, like a symphony, my own personal opera guiding me along the way.

Every swing of the ax went perfectly in time with the melody. My motion was smooth and graceful, effortless. I don’t remember much of that night after that. I just remember the after math wasn’t as pleasant. Numbness filled through out my entire being. No sadness. No tears. I didn’t cry, or panic, or throw up at the site of blood splattered everywhere. In fact, I don’t think I ever let reality set in. I just basked in the stillness. It was over, in every sense of the word.

I used so much of my strength lifting the blade in and out of flesh over and over again my arms went weak and I dropped the ax. It bounced in slow motion off the wood floor a few times before falling directly next to my husband’s lifeless face. I stared down for a moment. Eric’s body was at the base of the bottom of the staircase. I could barely recognize him. His blue eyes red, nose crushed in, forehead split. It made me feel better that it didn’t look like him, as if maybe- it wasn’t. I remember stepping on a cell phone at one point, Jaclyn’s, maybe? I’m sure it hurt my foot but I didn’t feel it with all that adrenaline still flowing through my veins. Her body was adjacent to Eric’s but facing down, close to the door. I guess maybe she tried to run? I can’t remember.

I gently tip toed around their dead bodies, up the steps. The house seemed so dark. I couldn’t hear the steps beneath my feet, the symphony still playing in my head, drowning out the normal house noises; the air lowly murmuring, the faucet dripping, the creaking of the floor boards and staircase. I pushed open the door to my daughter’s room. The light from the moon came in threw the big bay window and lit up her cradle. She hadn’t woken up, perfectly still like an angel, dreaming. I couldn’t spend much time in her room or it would break my numbness. I needed to feel numb in order to finish up this night. I kissed her forehead, stroking the thin dark curls around her head. I told her I loved her and how sorry I was. Leaving her will always be my biggest anguish but there’s no going back now.

The sound of sirens mixed in with my symphony. I peeked out the window; flashing blues and reds lit up the sky. It was oddly beautiful to me in that moment. It didn’t faze me that the cops were here. I guess a neighbor called or perhaps Jaclyn may have had the chance with her last dying breath when I wasn’t looking. It didn’t matter now. They wouldn’t have time to get me. I wouldn’t allow it. I walked into the bathroom and gazed into the mirror. Someone was looking back at me but I didn’t recognize her; a familiar but strange face: frazzled and flushed, hair encrusted with blood, maybe my own claret, maybe Eric’s, maybe Jaclyn’s. Perhaps it was better that way- unrecognizable to myself. I pressed both hands against the sink for balance. I was dizzy and weak and faint. I pulled out the small black pistol from my back pocket and placed it on the counter. I had used three or four rounds on Jaclyn and Eric just to initially take them down before I switched to the ax. I liked the ax better. It was classic and much more personal. I took a deep breath in and softly pushed my hair away from my face. I just wanted another minute to enjoy the song in my head. Funny how a person can change their life in less than ten minutes with the snap of their finger, or perhaps I should I say with the snap of their sanity.

I put the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger. I could see for a few seconds after the blast went off. I saw the bathroom ceiling, droplets of black, I saw the mirror and an image of a body falling down, I saw the floor and a hand- my hand, stretched out in a pool of blood, thick blacks and reds and browns all swirling together. The symphony playing in my head ended. The house noises returned. I could hear fast creaking on the stairs now, a stampede of footsteps, officers I could only presume. I wonder who the lucky bastard is that’s going to clean this mess?

So, in short, that’s what got me here. And if you don’t want the same fate as me then this is your wake up call. Turn back now or join me here, in Hell. I wish I had this opportunity at my crossroad, someone to give me this subconscious warning. Oh, sure. There were signs, small forewarnings that I was too foolish to see but nothing as straightforward as I am giving you now. So consider yourself lucky.

Nevertheless, should you find yourself at the gates of Hell after you resign from your flesh, then deem me as your counselor. Remember all that I tell you now because Heaven Forbid you should wake up in an eternal nightmare- then at the very least, you’ll be one step ahead of the game. Learn through my mistakes and pay close attention as I, Reagan Parker, guide you through the rules of surviving Hell.

Welcome to Hell. Population: Endless.

I sat in the passenger side of Roper’s oversized pick-up truck. We started on the dunes of Black Water Beach, breathing in the salty air for a bit before driving down the long, empty parkway just before your enter the city. This is a trip we often take.

I had a bottle of Jack in my lap and a lit cigarette resting on the window ledge in my right hand. Every time I lifted the bottle to my lips, the tires would pounce on the jarring highway and liquor would dribble down my chin. Roper would occasionally catch on to this and intentionally zigzag the vehicle abruptly just so I’d spill more liquid down my neck and chin. I knew he found this funny although he didn’t laugh.

Black Water Beach is the entrance of the afterlife. I can remember, distinctly, waking up in darkness, soaked and cold from the murky water, confused; my body washed ashore onto this ebon gravel over a gray sky. There was no friends or family waiting for me. No pearly gates; just the sound of bleak waves crashing against a deserted shore. This intonation once scared me because it represented the beginning of the end but now it exhibits a sense of solace.

My advice to you is that you skip moaning and groaning and crying. Do not stay curled up in a ball like a helpless child if you find yourself immersed among the water and the sand. From experience, I can only tell you that you are wasting your time and will grow wary and restless and do what we all do, which is: follow the gravel until it turns to asphalt and then journey down the long, desolate road that will lead you to the city. You cannot screw this up; for it’s the only road there is leading off of Black Water. There will be no street signs, no life; just hot pavement in between sparse patches of grassland.

Keep going. It goes on for miles and miles. You’ll want to give up. But just think: Your options are to keep walking into the unknown, or turn back and spend the rest of eternity in solitude, staring into endless, ominous crashing waves.

I took the unknown.

You’ll know you’re getting close when you start to see the artificial lights beckoning you from the dense air. And just before you hit the beginning of the city, Sinner’s Cove – there it will be: a square sign looming overhead, floating in the nothingness like a hapless cloud that reads; “Welcome to Hell.”

If you’re lucky, some passerby’ll pick you up during the endless route and drive you into the city. If you’re real lucky- that passerby will be Roper and I. In fact, that’s how I met Roper. An oversized, black pick-up truck with a metal skull adorned on the front bumper, pulled up next me slummed over on the side of the road. He was handsome and well dressed. Don’t be fooled- trust nobody. Roper offered me a friendly hand but behind his dashing good lucks and bright smile, he’s no Good Samaritan. His kindness was nothing more fiending for a new victim.

Roper, or should I say, Dr. Daniel J. Roper in his flesh living life was a well-respected Psychologist and also, a serial killer. His victims were mainly woman, sometimes even his own patients. By his forty-second birthday, he had over twenty-six hits under his belt. He had told me once, “I was aiming for forty-six kills by my forty-sixth birthday but I never made it to then. I’m sure, had he not been gunned down by the police shortly after he turned forty-three, he would have beaten his goal. Roper is quite the charmer. His resume reads: intensely intellectual, a master of manipulation, proficient in concealing evidence and a grade-A smart-ass. I can see why woman were easily smitten by him. It’s like that children’s book, “Chicken Little”: trusting, naïve little Henny Penny being led to the cave by the conniving Wolf.

Roper often drives along the empty highway between Black Water and Sinner’s Cove, waiting for easily targeted newcomers. But he met his match when he met me. I suppose that’s why we work so well together.

Relationships aren’t the same down here. You cannot feel the endearment of love but you can feel lust and obsession, which, if you fool yourself enough, can feel a little like love. Your emotional realm only ranges in certain capacities: sadness, depression, confusion, anger. You learn to keep level. Laughter usually only stems from someone else’s expense and love is artificial; more or less just for the sake of normalcy.

I guess at one point, that’s all Roper and me wanted: something that resembled our old breath emitting life. That’s one benefit of being in Hell. You can gluttonously binge on sex, booze and drugs without remorse but after awhile, you’ll long for convention. We all do eventually.

We entered Sinner’s Cove. Roper would fluctuate between drags from his joint and swigs from my bottle of Jack. His attire was professional like always: dark slacks, black collared button-up shirt and polished dress shoes. His blue eyes gravely focused on the road ahead of him. Now and again he’d swerve to hit a pedestrian innocently walking by. They’d hit the grill of the car and launch forward right before Roper’s tire rolled over their body. The thud would hurl the truck off the ground causing the whiskey to explode out of the spout and usually land on the crotch of Roper’s pants.

“You look like you pissed yourself,” I teased.

He laughed. But I’m not sure if it was at the irony of the liquid bulls eye or the pleasure he got running people over, probably the latter.

“What number is that?”

“Six,” I lied. I wasn’t keeping track.

“Wrong. Eight.” He corrected me.

“Why are you asking me if you already know the answer?”

He pulled the bottle from my hand and took another long sip. He let loose a loud ahhh sound before remarking. “To make sure you’re paying attention.”

A hooker started to stride closer to Roper’s driver side window. He flashed a kind smile before side swiping her into the wall of a brick grocery store building. “Nine!” He belted out proudly in a German accent. I leaned back in my seat and comfortably leaned my right leg out of the window. The bottom of my black dress lifted up with the wind. I acknowledge the fact that my red-laced panties were fully exposed. The exhibition in combination with the exhale of smoke from my cigarette made my feel infinite. And I was.

Sinner’s Cove sits on the eastern half of Hell. In this city exists the lesser evil of the underworld: the non-believers, the heartless, the whores and petty criminals. The locals relatively keep to themselves. Most of the townies established small, local businesses: markets, shops, watering holes. I know that sounds odd being there’s no use for money or jobs here in Hell but like I said before, and I’ll use this term often and loosely- the town wanted to have a sense of normalcy and working created that.

Do I work? No.

I had enough of that during my first life. Eight years of a monotonous nine to five office job. Being under appreciated and underpaid were probably partly responsible for my mental breakdown in my last month alive. Or at least, I tell myself that.

Oh, and those townies Roper hit, don’t feel that bad for them. You can’t die because you’re already dead. That’s the good thing. The bad thing is, and let me think how I can clearly explain this to you? Well, you have no bones, or pumping heart, or breathing lungs. Just a soul and a mind full of memories: an emulation of once existing flesh. Your nerve endings are all dead but the memory of pain causes your entire body to feel every bit of it somehow. I don’t know exactly how it works; I just know it’s the price we pay for being sinners. You can feel an immense amount of suffering that would make you wish you could die all over again. For example: when Roper hit the prostitute with his car- she felt it. Her senses imitated the agony of ribs cracking, arms and legs breaking, head throbbing. Her body will even mirror that of flesh wounds but there is no hospitals or medicine or painkillers because the affliction is all in your mind, churning in your memories, and there is no fixing that. You’ll heal in time, and in some cases, never. This one time when Roper needed his kill fix; he had been fighting with a local man down at Saints & Sinners Tavern over something I can’t even recall. Something about: who was the bigger genius: Manson or Gacy, I think? Anyway, the argument ended up with this portly man, a former sex-offender, with his head completely sliced off by the blade of Roper’s ax. I don’t have much concept for time down here, but I’d say it was a good three or four years later that I spotted that same portly man from the bar walking down Sinner’s Cove still carrying his head in his hands. That man will curse and grunt and spit at Roper in passing but Roper only responds back with a wave and a smile. Quite the prick my boyfriend is, but adorable nonetheless.

Sex, drugs and booze work the same way as pain. You have no liver, or digestion system, or organs, or brain cells to even process these things but your recollection of being drunk or high or fucking gets rekindled, and thank goodness for that.

“Ten.”

Screech. Thud. Bump. There goes the rest of my whiskey.

I live in the midst of the east and west end, right along the border of the Devil’s Den. Devil’s Den is home to the underworld’s most notorious delinquents: gang members, mafia, criminal masterminds, serial killers, rapists, pedophiles, the deliriously crazy; they all reside here, including Roper. It’s called the Devil’s Den because the town lies directly under and slightly to the left of Satan’s Manor, also known as Lucifer’s Castle, whatever you want to call it- that’s where the Devil dwells with his army of demons. The mansion sits on top of a raised cliff and is gated by a steel, barb-wired barrier. Devil’s Den and Satan’s Manor are only separated by a foreboded forest, thick with whispering redwood trees and Reminisce Fall; a river that pours down from the top of the alp, runs along the forest and into the end cap of a cave (the cusp of Hell). A 400-foot metal gate runs side to side between the cave just where it starts to shrink up.

There’s a rumor that if you swim up to the gate and peek through it’s golden bars, you can see the water drain through this diminutive-sized hole where the end of the grotto shapes into a V. A hint of light emulates through the aperture, a beckon of hope for some, and I say that because the hearsay is that this wall of rock and limestone is the divider between Heaven and Hell.

And I bet you thought Heaven floats in the sky and Hell crumbles below the Earth?

Well, that could be…but the belief down here is that we’re adjacent to each other. The talk of the town is that if you squeeze amid the slotted poles and jostle through the hole in the cave, you’ll escape Hell and sneak into God’s land.

Sounds easy but it’s not. Factor #1: There’s two skeleton wards clothed in black hooded-robes with iridescent red ovals for eyes, perched among the top of the gate, fully armed with a bow and arrow and ready to attack any soul that dare climb this barricade.

What does it matter if you can’t die again, you say? I’ll explain.

A soul can hurt another soul through the memory and imitation of pain. That’s the best way I can describe it. The affliction a soul endures on another soul is usually fleeting depending on the person. However, the pain a paragon figure causes you (a demon or the Devil himself) is permanent. Satan’s noxious weaponry was designed to penetrate a soul like flesh on a human. If he bites off your finger, that appendage will not return by cognizance, nor will the pain ever end. After all, this is Hell…

Get it? Don’t worry. You will eventually.

To put it as simple as possible, and the number one rule of thumb is: Don’t mess with the Devil.Capisce? Besides, Factor #2: If you weasel your way into Heaven, an angel or God will eventually get word of your escape or recognize you la-dee-daing around Arcadia and boot your ass right back into the depths of Hell. Sigh. You’re stuck with us.

Now back to what I was saying before. If your sins are seemingly minuscule and you wind up in Sinner’s Cove: my advice is that you keep a low profile, mind your business, and keep a relatively unacknowledged existence. However, if your path in life leads to afterlife in the Devil’s Den: make friends real quick (and I use the term friend liberally because down here, friends are more like frienemies). Buddy up to the nearest Mayan gang member or impress Ed Gein with a plethora of intellectual conversation because it’s the only security you’ll have to keep your protected.Hell runs like a prison system. It’s all who you know.

Roper’s my safeguard. Not to mention, I made clear at the beginning of my hereafter that I wasn’t a girl to be fucked with. I started off by slaying a number of townies without much other reason besides that I could and why not? and also to brand myself as a predator, and not a victim. I suggest you do the same. That’s where I got this cute, straw cowboy hat you see on my head: my first kill.

It started at Slaughterhouse Pub, as did most of my succeeding hits. This red-faced, loud-mouthed southerner at the end of the bar would grab the top of his hat and slap his knee whenever he belted out this hearty, heckling laughter. He paid me no mind, but that damn hat sitting on his fat, roly-poly face sure stirred up bad memories from my mortal life. I retrace my steps to March of 2009: a dance floor, a wedding, my husband, Eric’s niece, Didi, was getting married. We flew down to Austin, Texas for the weekend. It started off lovely, really. Skip midway during the ceremony. There I am, three cocktails deep and flirting with my husband’s uncle- not because I find an overweight, white haired, sixty-some odd year old man attractive- but because I’m bored as fuck and Eric’s nowhere to be found, probably bullshitting with some long lost cousin. Uncle Pete adorned his light gray suit, white button up and striped tie with a straw, yellow cowboy hat. I complemented the accessory and in return, Pete said, “Ya like it? It’s yours. Here lil’ darlin’,” before placing the hat on my head.

I loved that damn hat, perhaps only because of alcohol influence but the tight black dress I was wearing, complete with a genuine, meridional cowboy hat made me feel sexy as I strutted and shimmied around the dance floor. Eric found me shortly after, dragging his legs across the wood square tile with a stern look on his face. Maybe it was the scotch, maybe it was an argument with a cousin I wasn’t there to witness, maybe he was growing tired of small talk and chitchat but either or, Eric returned to me in a foul mood. There I was, happily swaying back and forth to some disco-techy beat and without warning or much reason, he looked up at me, snarled his lip, and said, “Take that stupid hat off, Reagan. You look like a fucking idiot.” Needless to say, he soured my cheery demeanor.
Fast forward to my afterlife; Slaughterhouse Pub, fat guy in a straw cowboy hat, echoing laughter throbbing in my head. I trace an outline around his face and replace it with a blurry image of Eric, grimacing. The word asshole circles in my mind like a train; round and round, blowing it’s whistle with smoke spouting out from the letter H, until the mimicked feeling of blood bubbling, as it had before when I was angry, raised to my temple and I could feel an explosion about to erupt. The tubby man gulps down the rest of his drink, likely a scotch, just like Eric had been drinking, and smacks the rocks glass on the bar top. He hollers a goodbye to the bartender and some acquaintances next to him. He doesn’t so much as even look at me. I follow him out, nonchalantly, struggling to get my arms through my leather jacket as I walk. Tubby’s a few long strides in front of me, and like a perfect ominous sign, he stops dead in his tracks to lit up a cigarette. And that’s how I got him: an ambush from behind. I pulled a knife hidden in between my cleavage and used the sharp blade to slit open the delicate flesh of his neck from right to left. He fell to the ground immediately, clutching his throat, gurgling and chocking on the illusion of his own blood. I put one leg on top of his back, digging my heel into his spine like a stake, and gently pulled the hat off of his head and onto my own. I patted his skull like a good dog and thanked him before slowly walking away. He never saw it coming. It was that easy. It was that heartless. It was that cold.

I should have felt guilty but I didn’t. I convinced myself it was okay with the logic that he couldn’t die anyway, he only suffered; but in most cases, suffering is worse than death. Murder without guilt gave me a high so I continued on my killing spree. I’d hit a few pedestrians on the street as I drove by. I’d hide out in the bushes and hunt out the killers and rapists as I noticed them stalking out the whores down in Sinner’s Cove. It always gave me pleasure to watch them turn from predator to victim when they least expected it. Thus began my conversion from an animate, existent saint to a lifeless, soul-bearing sinner.

Roper hauled his truck into my driveway. I didn’t feel like going inside my house yet so I decided to stall Roper’s departure with a question that I knew would piss him off. I do this often out of boredom and for entertainment purposes.

“Do you think you would have loved me in real life?”

He grunted and shifted in his seat, irritated. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Why not?”

“It’s a stupid question. We’ve been over this already.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s perfectly admissible.”

“Ug.” He pushed back his soft, light brown hair away from forehead and then scratched the top of his head, vigorously. It’s something I notice Roper does whenever he’s agitated. “You’re being” he huffs,” emotional.” Are you imitating your period again? I fuckin’ hate when you do that.”

I open the door of the car and start to step out. “You’re impossible.”

He grabs my arm and pulls me toward him. “I love you as much as I can love you, without really loving you. You get what I am saying, kiddo?”

I understood that. I know Hell doesn’t grant real love. I know Roper tries; he’s my companion, and protection, and is there for me when I need him, and he hasn’t tried to strangle me in my sleep yet, which I know is as good as it’s going to get down here.

“I know that. I just mean, if you had met me during the course of our real life, in the flesh, do you think you would have loved me?” I leaned back inside the truck and shut the door.

“Yeah. Why not? You’re beautiful, intelligent, funny… you have great tits. What’s there not to like?”

This time, I was the one grunting but a sarcastic quip was the best I was going to get from him and I accepted that. “Did you ever love someone during your life?” I asked. He gazed through the windshield, intensely. I could tell he was really thinking about it. He pushed a red liter between his thumb and index finger back and forth until he was ready to answer.

“Yes, once. Maybe twice.”

“Who was she?”

“Emma was her name. I met her when we were in college. She was sweet, very pretty in that natural, girl next-door kind of way. She was studying to be a teacher. There was something so innocent about her…that’s why I think I loved Emma: her innocence and her kindness. Never said a bad word about anybody.” He became deep in thought.

“How long were you together?”

“Give or take, ten years.”

“What happened?”

“Um, well, I proposed to her eventually, bought a house, did the whole white picket fence thing. She vanquished most of my appetite to go out and kill anybody, even though I still did periodically. Westchester County should thank her for keeping the streets safe for a little while… but eventually, the cravings, the desires, all came back and she wasn’t enough to stop me. In my early thirties, the demon in me just went wild. I annihilated at least fourteen more girls just within a three-year time slot. I went on feeding frenzies during the night. I killed more people then I ever intended to but the beast in me couldn’t stop. It was this high I needed to have. No drugs could get me there. No amount of money could give me that power. No love could ever satisfy me the way a hard-earned kill could. Ever strangle somebody as you stare directly into their eyes? Their pupils bounce up and down, their lips quiver, they’re silently begging you for their life. You watch their last breath, the very second they leave this world is all yours. That kind of power is fucking godly. I called it off a week before our wedding. I had too. She was talking about kids. I can’t have kids. How could I have kids? I’d infect them with my disease. I’d destroy their purity and respect for their own father if they ever found out what kind of monster I was. I loved my unborn children enough not to do that to them, ya know? Bad enough I dragged her along for all those years, thinking we could ever be normal. Emma was heartbroken. I gave her some bullshit reason. She could see right through it but she never questioned me, or fought it. She let me go. Who knows? She probably thought I was fucking another chick or something, but I would never do that to her, ever. No, the reason was much worse than I’m sure she could ever imagine. I never told Emma what I was, obviously, but she knew me better than anybody. I think in the end, she might have had an idea, maybe.”

I lit his cigarette and then my own. We were silent for a few moments, collecting old memories.

“Did you love anyone after Emma?”

He shrugged. “Eh, sort of. Milli, this Asian chick. She was hot, great body, super smart; a classically trained pianist. She played the most beautiful music. She was a young girl, a good fifteen years younger than me at the time. We were dating for a year right before I was shot. Come to think of it? No, I never really loved her.”

“Do you regret your life?”

Roper laughed loudly to himself. “No, see that’s where me and you differ. In your life, you made a mistake. Then you assimilated to this portrayal of a wickedness in the afterlife just to survive- you’re no depraved villain. I was born a monster, I died a monster, and I’ll live out the rest of eternity doing what I did best. I’m fine with that.”

I kissed Roper goodbye and watched him back out of my driveway. I was surprised he didn’t come in for a quickie but I suppose after our talk, he was hot for a kill tonight. Understandable.

I faced my house and lit my twelfth cigarette today. My house is a cozy, three-bedroom ranch; all brick, with a black roof and black shutters, white garage doors; silver, house number twenty-four is perched next to the porch light, with two cement steps under the white door. There is a garden of brightly colored orange and red and purple impatiens planted on either side of the small patio, and also down at the end of my driveway, encircling a black mailbox.

Your house in Hell emulates your house in real life. Not necessarily the last place you lived in, but whatever during your time span on Earth that you considered to be home; whether that be the place you grew up in, as mine is, or the first house you bought with your spouse, or friend, or perhaps on your own. It could even mirror your dorm room from college if that’s what you associated as your safe haven. I grew up in this suburban ranch with my parents and older brother, Jimmy. I recognized it immediately after I entered the underworld. Of course, it didn’t feel the same. It was cold and empty but I was just glad to have some sort of familiarity where I was spending my eternity. I sat on the top of my stoop, ashing the remnants of the butt into the potted plant. As I slowly inhaled the last drag, I could hear this eerie echo in my mind of a child’s laughter. I envisioned this transparent image of a little girl in pigtails, about four or five, scampering around the bottom of my driveway with a small red bicycle. My heart sank in my chest; overwhelming sadness took over my entire being. My hand begun to shake and I wished I hadn’t finished my smoke so quickly.

At lunchtime today I stopped by the San Francisco Civic center to listen to some talented people speak out against SOPA and PIPA. Flickr co-founder Caterina Fake, legend venture investor Ron Conway, Craig’s lists founder Craig Newmark and MC Hammer all took the microphone and condemned the legislation for its violations of law, common sense and economic good.

It is hard to determine if congress is that easily influenced with campaign contributions from the old media music and movie industries or are they out of touch with the internet’s transformation of the world during the last 20 years. Did they miss the memo on the Arab Spring in which new media played a significant role in toppling three governments. Clearly they have miscalculated in choosing sides.

Congress has aligned with old media in an attempt to turn back time to $14 CDs and daily late charges at Blockbuster. Old media has chosen to lobby for protective legislation rather than take advantage of the internet’s capabilities through innovation.

Even if consideration is not given to the opponent’s charges that SOPA and PIPA will violate freedom of speech and due process, you have to question the wisdom of congress to pick a fight with the people that build and operate the internet. The people that know how to attract billions of daily internet views like Craig Newmark and Reddit cofounder Aaron Schwartz and many others have been energized into activism to oppose congress’s threat to their beliefs and livelihood.

Even if new media loses and SOPA and PIPA pass, there will be an army of well educated, competent and economically advantaged new media internet opposition that will boil them in a sea of electrons come the next election.

When she was a little girl, on hot summer days, she would steal the glass salt shaker from her mother’s kitchen and sneak out to the garden. The tomato plants, taller than she had yet grown and heavy with fruit, like a thicket of small trees, hid her from view. She would sit in the shade, on the cleared path of soil between the rows, and pull off large red fruit, warmed by the sun. A little sprinkle of salt and she’d bite into the sweet richness, wiping at the juice, dribbling down her chin, with the back of her hand.

She still loves the taste of tomatoes, but she doesn’t pick them off the vine anymore. Now she eats them in the nursing home, with the other residents. The nurse pushes her wheelchair as close to the table, as it will go, and locks the wheels in place. She leans forward in the chair, her eyes never leave her plate, as she concentrates to make her weak, trembling hand attempt, in slow motion, to spear the tempting red slices. I sit across the table watching her struggle to eat her meal. I haven’t seen her in eighteen years, and now, her cancer has brought me back to her.

When I first entered her room I almost didn’t recognize her. She’s pale and gaunt. A few wispy strands of white hair have replaced the curly auburn locks she once had. I knew her eyes however. Lively, bright cobalt blue, they are exactly the same. “Hello Mom,” I said.

She grew up on a farm, hard working, and a tomboy. She preferred to be outdoors, working with her dad and three brothers instead of inside, helping her mother cook and clean. Perhaps that is why, when she had grown, being married and taking care of four daughters, rubbed and chafed at her, choking her, like a dog collar that was much too tight. Perhaps that is why she broke free and slipped away, leaving behind the uncomfortable collar, the husband, and the children. Too soon, my visit ends, it is time for me to go home. My plane is leaving in the morning. She gives me a tight hug with her good arm. I say, “I’ll see you late . . . ”. I stop myself. I won’t see her later. I will never see her again. She will die soon. I battle to keep my emotions under control, for her sake. I lose. “I love you mom,” I say, the tears rolling down my cheeks. I can’t hold them back, they come unbidden from some deep well I hadn’t known was there. She is also crying, her tears quietly slipping out of the corners of her eyes and soaking the pillow beneath her head.

She looks away, speaking to the wall. “You know I love you girls,”she says, in a low voice. She has never been demonstrative, or affectionate, the words mean a lot. With the fingers of her good hand, she rubs her chest, in a circular motion.

“Are you in pain Mom?”

“Yeah,” she moans.

“Do you want me to call the nurse? Do you need your medicine?”

“It’s not that kind of pain,” she answers in a shaky voice. She turns her head and looks at me, her bright blue eyes lock onto mine and tell me more, in a mere moment, than her words ever could, or ever did. My heart hurts too. I can feel it cracking. Uncontrollable, wracking sobs explode from my throat. I hold onto her frail body, and bury my face in her blanket. I cry. I cry long and loud and hard. I cry for me and I cry for her. I cry for all the things we should have said, for the time we wasted, and for the anger that isn’t important any more. I cry, because I don’t want to lose her, and I cry because, . . . she waited until she was dying to let me know she loved me.

In addition to going dark, pixelhose staff participated in the San Francisco SOPA protest. Yes! We did show up in person – an odd feeling, like, oh, reading a paper book nowadays!

We are happy, no, make that ELATED to report that the “after-action” data are extremely positive. Here are some highlights, gleaned from various news sources:

Three US senators, including senator Marco Rubio (R-FL) withdrew his
support for SOPA/PIPA. Given the senator’s stature within the GOP, this is a
major blow to these incredibly, uh…, dumb is the only word that comes to
mind, bills.

The conservative Heritage Foundation announced its opposition to the
bills.

Last week only three senators opposed PIPA. As of this writing, 35
senators are publicly opposing the bill(s). The “magic number” – the number of
opposing votes needed to kill the bill in the US Senate – is 41.

These are all of course great first-time-out results for a community that had never come together for a political cause. But the SOPA problem is far from solved.

Next week, US Senate will try a floor vote on PIPA. We’ll of course will have multiple posts before then, hoping to give everyone more good reason to keep signing those online petitions and calling their US senators, PARTICULARLY senator Patrick Leahy (D-VT) who is one of the bill’s co-sponsors and, so far, has refused to acknowledge the error of his ways.

In the meantime, we want to THANK everyone who supported the protest day, particularly those of you who also took time to send us emails expressing your support.

As all of you probably are aware of, US Congress is considering two uniquely evil bills, SOPA (House) and PIPA (Senate), that make Chinese or Iranian censorship practices seem benevolent by comparison.

If these bills become law, they will not only summarily destroy free exchange of ideas on the net, but are likely to force a new, severely limiting, net-scale, information tracking architecture by immediately placing sites like Facebook, YouTube, Wikipedia, and WordPress in the cross-hairs of lawyers for the five largest Hollywood studios, the Recording Industry Association of America, and a handful of multinational media conglomerates – the primary forces behind these bills. One of the biggest proponents of these bills is Rupert Murdoch whose media organization, as well as his own personal role in the recent illegal phone hacking scandal is under investigation in both US and UK.

Hello? Kettle? This is pot…

To make sure our voices are heard over the katching-katching of money being poured into politicians’ campaigns by lobbyists, many of the web’s biggest destinations, such as Wikipedia, will go dark for 12 hours on Wed January 18th, 2012. While we are not quite the size of some of these big boys (well, not for a couple more years anyway) pixelhose.com will also join the strike and go dark that day.

PLEASE TAKE A QUICK MINUTE to make your voice heard. The web site AmericanCensorship.org will do all of the work for you! All you have to do is fill a form and they’ll take it from there. They’ve written up a template text, so all you have to do is scroll down the home page, fill out one of the two forms and hit “send”.

There is a form for those in the US – text will be forwarded to your representative based on your zip code.

There is ALSO a form for those NOT in the US – text will be forwarded to the US State Department.

For additional information on SOPA/PIPA see:

A 4 min video overview is here (be patient, this video is getting millions of hits)

My name is Katherine Thomas. First off, you should know. In case you didn’t realize it from the scarred black leather cover on this silly thing that my school councilor pretty much forced me to write, I’m not a girly girl. Never have been, never will be. The only time you’ll ever see me with a purse is if I just ripped one off of someone else.

In six months I’ll be eighteen. In ten months, I’ll be dead. That’s the whole reason I’m leaning against my backyard fence writing in this stupid little book I dug out of someone’s locker and kept for some reason. My councilor said writing down my feelings will help me to vent in a safe way. Like hell. In a year it won’t matter anyway. For some reason I listened anyway. Maybe it will help. Fat chance.

My hair is mouse brown, I’m mid weight, pretty much just nothing special in any way you can imagine. Except maybe the fact that I’ve had a juvie record since I was twelve, and that I’m apparently gonna drop dead before I hit nineteen. Like anybody will miss me.
My parents died in a car wreck when I was three. Or that’s what they told me anyway. I have a scar from my upper arm to my back. I don’t remember them. From what I hear they were bigger losers than I am. Since then I’ve gone from one foster family to another. I’ve been molested twice, and I learned to defend myself against that and worse at an early age. I had to steal a lot of times for any kind of living whenever I got put into state “shelters”. The other foster families, mostly a bunch of goodie goodies that were horrified by my lack of pink lace, got tired of “trying to keep me out of trouble” and put me back in the shuffle. Guess pretty soon I’m gonna be the coroner’s problem.

They checked my x-rays a little closer whenever I had my teeth worked on one time. There was a weird blur, so they decided to take more. A month later they told me I was going to die. Guess that puts me past denial and into anger. The family I’m with at the moment have hung on to me longer than the average temp house, so they’re all freaking out about it. They don’t have kids of their own, and if I heard right from the caseworker I got foisted on they can’t. This is their first foster job I guess. Bad luck for them. They’re kinda nice in a yuppy over-lovey kinda cartoon parent way. Well that’s all for today. I don’t really feel any better. Maybe I’ll do some more later. Or not. Whatever.

July 4

Got caught lifting another candy bar at the 4less down the street. Guess I’m banned now. Whatever. The Parents came in and reeled off the whole teary eyed sob story so the place didn’t press charges. Dunno why they bother. Juvie, temp house, all the same to me. They gave me the usual speech bout how they’re “so disappointed in me” and all that crap. Like they actually know me or care. Shrug and walk like always. Why should anyone give a shit about me? Just another juvie down the tube that nobody wanted to start with.

July 6

Met a girl in the ward where they run my tests and poke shit into my arm. She’s all girly girl, or she was anyway till they found out she had leukemia and the chemo made her hair fall out. She’s always got a goofy ass grin on her face, reminds me of a bald version of The Mom whenever she’s not yellin at me. She says she’s been comin here a couple of years, ever since she came back out of remission. She used to play tennis. But she’s got so weak now, she can’t play or something. She just keeps yakkin at me like we’re best friends or somthin. Guess it’s not so bad since this place can’t afford cable, and there ain’t many TVs to go around anyway. She says she helps take care of the younger kids whenever she feels strong enough to get out of bed. I told her I’d go with her if she’s up to it when I come back in, in a couple of days just to shut her up for a while. It didn’t work, she’s still over there yappin away while I’m scribblin in this ratty little feeling book. Some people just can’t take a hint.

July 9

Came in for the EKG or whatever the hell it’s called, they’re still hoping it’s operable, there’s like a 5% chance of it being removed without me being a vegetable or somethin. Doesn’t sound so hot to me. Whatever. Why the hell are they even tryin? I’m just a threat to society anyway.

The girl’s name is Ashley, I call her Ash. It pisses her off a bit, she makes that little flinchy face every time I say it, but that’s kinda just a bonus. Who in hell names their kid Ashley anymore?

Anyway she’s takin me to the Children’s Ward today to help out. Guess she’s still workin on her Miss America points or somethin. Miss Bald Swimsuit. I’ll write about it tomorrow I guess, I don’t think I’ll have time today.

July 10

Wow. Just. Wow. I feel bad about myself now. I went to the Children’s Ward yesterday with Ash. There were little kids there some of them not even half my age. Most of them had no hair left anywhere on their body, their veins were standing out. The few who were actually able to drag themselves out of their beds, looked like little corpses dragging teddy bears. I never thought there’d be so many of them, there were at least twenty of them, all pale and listless there. But so many of them still managed to smile, whenever we walked through the doorway. Just walking in the door, that’s all we did, and for fifteen minutes these kids were Christmas in July. We played checkers with them. Pulled out the most ancient looking rainbow painted xylophone I’ve ever seen and let them beat on it with wooden spoons that had seen better years. They were in heaven. All they had to do all day was just sit around and try to entertain themselves, while slowly waiting to die. The Ward couldn’t afford anything else.

For the first time in my life I know what suffering really is. It isn’t mine. I’m going to die, yes. But these kids are gonna die before their lives even begin. What is wrong with the world? Why them, and not some crooked politician in D.C.? They deserve better than this. I’m going to see what I can do to change it.

July 11

I’m having to stay another night in the Ward, the Parents have to go talk to some doctor somewhere about some new operation. I don’t care anymore. I’m a waste of space as far as the human race is concerned, there are people who deserve to live more than me. Like those kids 500 yards east. Each one of them is worth five of me. Take me if you want, whatever God there is. Let them have a chance at life. That’s all I ask.

July 12

I listened, really listened, to Ash for the first time today. From what she’s heard some of the nurses say and her own parents even, the Ward will have to close down soon due to lack of funding. If that happens, she thinks and I agree that a lot of the kids in the Children’s Ward who could get back on their feet will die without treatment. This is just wrong. What the hell, I mean, what did they cut funding for to add a shuffleboard court on some rich senator’s favorite golf club? Something’s gotta give. I’m gonna find something. I gotta. Those kids deserve better. She’s been trying to spread awareness and raise money for years for this, apparently. Her parents are rich and all, but they don’t care about anyone else in the Ward but her, I guess.

I told Ash that I’d start calling her Ashley if she’d like. She just smiled at me in that cute, bald way, and said that she was used to it now, and it would be fine. She’s not bad, Ash.

July 20

Ash bought me a friendship charm bracelet today. I’m not usually into this girly kinda stuff, but she was just soooo excited about it (her exact words) so I put it on anyway. It’s actually not half bad looking at least without the charms. But I’ll keep em on there for her I guess. She’s always been nice to me. We’re gonna go to the Children’s Ward again tomorrow. She says I should show em my new bracelet. I dunno about that, one of em might get so excited they try to eat it or something.

July 22

Feeling sick from all the shit they pump into me to do the tests. The Mom saw my bracelet and started spazzing out thinking I had lifted it or something. I had to have Ash call her and tell her that she had given it to me. That wasn’t awkward at all.

Well after the tirade and phone call, she got all teary eyed, and said it was great that I’m making friends. She been doin that kinda thing a lot lately, going from pissed to cryin and such. Maybe it’s her time of the month or somethin.

The Parents seem like they’re really gonna try and fly me out to that doctor, the one with the experimental surgery thing. I’m not looking forward to brain surgery but they say there are really low risks to this and it’s at least worth a try. I guess I’ll go with, I don’t really have much choice anyway. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. I hope they know what they’re doin.

August 12

They tried the surgery. I guess it didn’t work, the tumor was in a more difficult position than they thought. So basically they cut a hole in my head for nothing. Typical. At least I’m still alive, at least for now. Just chillin out recoverin at the house. Not much to do but sit and watch TV, try to play a few games but nothin major.

Sad as it is to admit, I kinda miss talkin to Ash. Hope she’s been doin okay while I’ve been gone. She acts all tough sometimes but everything she does and says screams girly girl. I bought her a bracelet to match mine before I went into surgery. I’m gonna give it to her in two days when I go back to the Ward.

I hesitate to say that the Mom… well her name is Sandra, I guess I can call her that. Sandra and her husband have been real nice to me since I’ve been here. Almost feels like a real family sometimes. Or at least what they look like in the movies. Maybe they really are good people for once. It’s prolly just the hole in my head talkin. Anyways, till next time.

August 14

Back in the Ward again, and no Ash. Figures. It’s really empty and lonely without her blabbing my ear off. Oh well, she’s never gone for long. I asked the nurses what was up, cause they’re doing the whole gossipy whisper number, but they just kinda give me this look, I dunno what it means, and then they wipe their eyes and run off. Must be allergy season or somethin. Maybe they’re weirded out by the juvenile delinquent asking about the cheerleader. Anyway, not much happenin today aside from the nurse weirdness. Can’t wait till Ash gets here. Bet she’ll talk my head off for days about her new bracelet.

August 16

Ash is dead. She went to sleep on the 13th and didn’t wake up the next morning. That’s what they told me. I thought it was some kind of screwed up joke or something. I guess one of the nurses called to remind her parents of the appointment, heard about it and told all the other ones. They didn’t know what to say to me. So they just didn’t say anything. I asked Sandra if it’d be okay to go and see her parents but she said I’d have to wait til they had the funeral in a couple of days. I guess I can get that. Her parents must be really having a tough time. I haven’t even been able to cry yet. I feel like shit cause I can’t even cry about my one friend in the whole damn world dying.

What the hell is wrong with me?

August 18

The funeral was today. First time in my life I’ve ever worn a dress, I think. Sandra said it looked good on me, but I think she was just trying to make me feel better. I finally started crying when we came into that room and the people moved aside and I saw that long black box laying on the table. That’s when it really hit me. That it wasn’t a movie or whatever, that she was really gone and wasn’t coming back. It’s weird that even when you know things are true, or you see them happen to someone else, or even have them described to you, it’s still not really real until it’s you. Until you’re in it.

It was really weird cause whenever I moved forward and saw her laying there, I saw this ridiculous little curly blonde wig on her head, and it made me want to just bust out laughing while crying at the same time, right in front of everybody there. I almost peed myself trying not to laugh for a second, but it didn’t last long. That probably sounds weird to anybody who’s never been to one of those deals, but maybe if you’ve been there you’ll know what I mean. Maybe it’s cause the person you know isn’t really there anymore, it’s like a wax sculpture of them or something, and if there’s something you would normally find goofy about it in the picture, that plus your being all bummed and everything just makes it hysterically funny for a second.

I dunno.

I talked to her parents, and I gave them the charm bracelet that I had bought her. Her mom just sorta nodded while crying and her dad just had this look on his face like I had kicked him in the balls or something.

Whenever we got to the plot after the drive, I saw it hanging there on one of the handles when they were carrying the coffin by, like one of the things you hang on your rearview mirror or whatever. I saw her mom open up the lid real quick and slip it in before they got ready to lower it. That made me feel a little better seeing her do that, like I got to give it to Ash after all.

Maybe if all that junk really is true, at least for her anyway, she’s all showin it off to baby Jesus or somethin, yakkin his ear off about how she’s sooooo glad her friend got it for her. Maybe. She’d like that I guess. Long as she has somebody to talk to.

August 20

Ash’s parents came to the Ward to visit and stuff. Her mom was still all teary and lace covered but her dad looked only like his pepto wasn’t doing the trick today. I talked to them about Ash and what she did while she was here. They asked me a lot of questions about funding and stuff like that when I took em to the Children’s Ward. I guess the nurses told all the kids about Ash, they were all lookin bout like how I feel. I wished I could cheer them up, but that’s a tall order when you feel like crap yourself. I told em I’d still come as often as I could to check up on em. Right before I left, one of the little girls came up and gave me this little bitty angel charm. It said to K from A on the back of it in little tiny letters. I cried again.

I never thought about it before now, but I had never heard her last name until today. It’s an odd one too. Her full name was Ashley Anne Mowse. If I had heard it when I first met her, I probably would have made fun of her for it. We might never have been friends. I might have died without ever knowing that feeling. But now it just made me smile. Ash Mowse, and Kat. Kat and Mowse, the best of friends.

I filled in the front page today. I guess it’s supposed to be where the guy or whoever owned it was supposed to put his name. I made it my dedication page. My little shrine to Ash. I love you, and miss you, girl.

August 21

Ash’s parents announced on the local news today that they were opening a foundation in her name, to raise money for cancer research, for kids who can’t afford the treatments, but first and foremost to keep the Ward open. They started it out with around two hundred thousand dollars, because they really couldn’t afford more than that, but they asked that whoever can spare some to donate. Some people have, they said but in order to keep the Ward open for starters, they’re gonna need almost five million. I’m going to do what I can. Not just for the kids, but that alone is reason enough. Because it’s what Ash would have done. By herself if she needed to. This is for you, Ash.

August 25

I talked to Sandra. I’m going to drop out of school. I mean, really what does it matter at this point? I want what little is left of my life to matter as much as Ash did to me. I took my license test and passed. Sandra bought me a car, a clunker but it’s all they can afford what with all the testing and such. I don’t mind. I’m going to go on a trip as soon as I hit eighteen. I’m not even gonna have a birthday party. It doesn’t matter anymore, none of it does. People need to know what’s going on. They need to see that their prefect world is not so perfect.

I want them to know before it’s their own kid on chemo. Ash, be with me girl.

December 25

Sorry bout the length of time it took to get back, but I’ve been preparing speeches and such for when I leave. Takes a lot of effort to get ready for this sort of thing. Just cause they felt like they had to get me something, Sandra and her hub decided to get me a lotto ticket. They said I’m gonna need luck, so why not. I just laughed and thanked them. It’s a little early for my birthday but they know when I’m leaving.

We had Christmas at the Mowse’s just like Thanksgiving. Their idea, Sandra was all worried about looking nice and stuff. I just told her to be herself, Ash never minded how I was, just who I was. That seemed to calm her down. It was just a real quiet Christmas, the Mowses had always had Ash before now, I think that’s really why they asked me to come. They just didn’t want to be alone with memories of Ash and nobody to talk to. I saw Mrs. Mowse crying a bit whenever she thought nobody was looking.

Four more days.

December 29

I’m gonna be busy busy from now on so I prolly won’t have time to write. I’m gonna keep calling mom and dad. Yeah, I actually called them that for the first time. My Christmas present to them I guess, since I couldn’t buy anything. They deserve it. I hope of they find another foster kid sometime, it’ll be some nice kid who’s never got into trouble and doesn’t stress em out.

I’ve had a will written today, all my stuff, and “salable items” will be liquidated and the proceeds go to the Ashley Mowse Foundation, or like I call it, the Kat and Mowse fund. I’m only taking a little bit of my junk with since I’ll be livin out of my car, but what I’m bringing is all stuff that’s important to me.

Well this is Katherine Thomas, signing off for now.

Ready for me, world?

***

Approximately five months later, along what she called her “campaign trail” Katherine Thomas called her foster mother Sandra Williams, told her that she had finally dropped off the lotto ticket that had been her early birthday present in the mail, and asked her mother to send it in, and that she’d be coming home for a bit to prepare for another trip cross country in the opposite direction. She died quietly in her sleep that night.

The next day as we were watching the evening news the winning numbers for the lottery were announced. They were the same numbers as the ones on Katherine’s ticket. In accordance with Katherine’s will, all of the proceeds of her lottery winnings, as well as her liquidated assets were placed into the Kat and Mowse Fund. The total approached nearly one hundred and fifty million dollars.

Her efforts around the country succeeded in changing public opinion enough that finally, and perhaps fittingly the Kat and Mowse Bill passed through Congress, extending loan periods, and in general financially assisting hospitals and medical institutions in need. “The Ward” as she called it, was fully renovated and a new Children’s Section, christened the Kat and Mowse Ward.

All of these words in the diary are hers and hers alone. We faithfully transcribed them all except for four. Those four are framed and hang from the archway that leads to the Kat and Mowse Ward. They were the last four written in the dusty journal that was found among her possessions. “From K to A.”

Whenever her funeral was held hundreds from across the country attended. Many were forced to wait outside in the rain for as long as two hours. They all paid their respects. Before the coffin was lowered I placed her charm bracelet inside with her. How could I do any less?

We all love you and miss you, girl.

Delia Mowse.

]]>pixelhoseAll Qualified Contest Entries Have Been Postedhttps://pixelhose.wordpress.com/2012/01/16/all-qualified-contest-entries-have-been-posted/
Mon, 16 Jan 2012 21:08:04 +0000http://pixelhose.com/?p=1460Continue reading →]]>The next step in the process is for us to put together a short list for each category. We are working on that and plan to post it on Monday January 23rd. If you don’t remember all the details of the contest process, please read this post.

We’ve double checked to make sure that nothing fell behind the couch. Just the same, if you’ve sent a submission and have not heard back, one way or another, please contact us by emailing pixelhose@live.com. Immediately! Please note that we won’t be able to fix the problem after the short lists are released.

****IMPORTANT SECURITY NOTICE****

Contests are often targets of various scams, in particular, though probably not exclusively, the Phishing, and Check Cashing Scam. Please note the following:

All Winners will be announced on the site ON A SPECIFIC DATE. That date is announced once the short lists are released. So if you get an email that you’ve won, check the site.

WE WILL NEVER email you to ask for ANY banking or credit card information to
remit prize payments.

WE WILL NEVER remit the prize in a form that you have to refund back a
portion of it. This is a very popular scam and you should generally question
anyone who pays you more than they have to. Particularly if the sender requests the refund via wire transfer.

If we pay you a prize by mistake, IT IS LEGALLY YOURS TO KEEP. This is another popular scam. You should question any payment that you did not expect, even if it is a registered or cashier’s check and, particularly if the sender requests the refund via wire transfer.

If you have any questions please contact us via email or call us at 209-487-5648.